


Chin Up

by reddottedpaper



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Backstory, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Love at First Sight, M/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Painter Joe, Priest Nicky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddottedpaper/pseuds/reddottedpaper
Summary: Joseph Jones is an eccentric painter in the 19th century, bored of the high live and its society. It's only when he meets brother Nicolo, a shy priest with the bone structure of a God and the eyes of a million stars, that Joseph feels alive once more.And then he spotted his eyes and he felt the wine glass in his hand crack as he squeezed it. They were like the deepest ponds of sea, a mixture of blue and green and they evoked the feeling of being skin-kissed by a light, warm breeze. They perfected his beautiful face and he wished to touch him and trace the lines of his face with his hands until he could remember them by heart. He immediately wished to draw him.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, only background though - Relationship
Comments: 25
Kudos: 167





	Chin Up

At first, Joseph had been reluctant to join his friend’s afternoon tea, as always. He didn’t get his reputation of a solemn, odd and lonesome artist for nothing, after all. Each of those pale gentlemen and ladies, that liked to worry themselves with the newest oriental decor first thing in the morning and the city’s gossip any time after that, looked at him as nothing but. It was generally frowned upon for a man of his status to keep to himself to a degree that he did. Joseph was solemn to appear on any of the cream of society’s events and aside from a few ventures into the bank or his gallery, he was a ghost and his existence itself had been questioned multiple times - for most people he sounded more a legend than a man of flesh and bone.

On those times when he did appear at some formal event, he made sure to plan his path through the garden’s party or a host’ house in such a way that he’d avoid any competitive conversationalists, tackling any social gathering as an obstacle course so that his voice box would be safe from overuse. Some people considered him boring, some thought he despised the world so much artificially, just so he could see it in bleaker colors which would give his paintings a deeper atmosphere. It occurred to neither of them that Joseph simply didn’t care for their company and sharp tongues, that would had surely lapped at the knowledge of Joseph being gay, and so he kept his life private. It seemed to be a bonus that with time, people invited him to parties and teas less and less, and Joseph hoped that soon, the invitations wrapped in pretty, coarse-paper envelopes would stop coming all together. He didn’t care for the heavy, fake company.

But this afternoon was different; it was a charity tea that had been organized by Sebastien’s wife Nile, who was one of the few ladies that Joseph could tolerate. He adored her, even. Her bright smile and kind nature pulled his longtime friend Sebastien from the abyss he downed into after his first wife had died. This year, it would be their fifth anniversary and as they were close to the only people Joseph could confide in and actually liked, he was in no position to decline once Sebastien invited him.

After embracing both Nile and Sebastien, he was grateful to Sebastien for dragging him through the house and onto the garden that was buzzing with guests. That way, no one would try to talk him up as he was obviously being talked up by Sebastien already.

“Don’t you look dandy,” Joseph muttered and hid the tease in his voice with a smile as he blindly looked around at the other guests. His friend looked nothing short of exhausted.

“Hard to look good when I'm shunned in my wife’s shadow. She put all of this together, can you believe it? All the food and tea and the maids. It was like a warzone in the house all morning, I was afraid that I’d get sent to kitchen duty if dared to defy any orders.” He paused to keep in a chuckle that Joseph let out in full. “But she did it. She’s absolutely amazing. We already met the sponsoring goal and people still keep donating. Sometimes I’m at awe at her stubbornness. She does what she puts her mind to.”

The pride that strummed in his words didn’t escape him and he gave Sebastien a gentle squeeze on his arm. He returned it with a smile.

“I’m a lucky man.”

“You’re a lucky man, Sebastien.”

As if to seal a deal they just agreed upon, they shook hands and stopped only when a maid walked by with glasses of sparkly wine. They both took one and retreated to a snuggly corner of the hedges that lined Sebastien and Nile’s garden. From their spot, neatly hidden by long, hanging branches of an old oak that stood just outside the hedges, they could sip their wine and watch the guests without worrying of being observed. Sebastien, visibly relieved he could be free of his obligation to welcome guests for a moment, he shared being easily socially tired with Joseph, leaned back against the hedge and let the prickly branches and leaves hold up his weight as he let out a deep breath.

“Being the party host is definitely Nile’s cup of tea.”

“Mmhm. She obviously wears the pants in this relationship.”

“Sometimes mine.”

They shared a look of mystery and Joseph felt his cheeks stress with another smile so wide his dimples hollowed his cheeks. Sebastien made a small content sound and blushed up to his ears.

It was amidst the comfortable silence that downed upon them like a welcoming cloud of fog, that Joseph decided to indulge himself in people watching and caught sight of  _ him _ .

He and the rest of his group looked awfully out of place amidst the guests. All wore black gowns that reached their shoes and the lack of color or frill made them stand out like a sore thumb. Still, that wasn’t the only reason the man caught Joseph’s attention. His face was unlike any he’d ever seen, his features so unlike anybody else’. Sitting atop broad shoulders was a beautifully pale column of his neck, his Adam’s apple in a shadow casted by his sharp cut jaw. Joseph’s eyes followed the line of it until he reached his ears, hidden by stray strands of rich, brown hair that brushed his cheeks. It was then that he felt himself rooted to the ground, when he saw his face fully once he turned; those lips spoke of wide smiles and cruel scowls and suppleness and tightness all at once, his nose was the most perfect imperfection that Joseph had ever seen, slightly too big and hooked, and then he spotted his eyes and he felt the wine glass in his hand crack as he squeezed it. They were like the deepest ponds of sea, a mixture of blue and green and they evoked the feeling of being skin-kissed by a light, warm breeze. They perfected his beautiful face and he wished to touch him and trace the lines of his face with his hands until he could remember them by heart. He immediately wished to draw him.

“Invited clergymen?” he asked and tried to sound cool and not like he’d just met his muse.

“Ah. They’re from the monastery. Nile invited them, she was interested in working with their orphanage.”

That was apparently all Joe needed to hear as he abandoned his friend and took confident steps towards his target. Sebastien did call after him but after his third attempt, Joseph heard him laugh in the distance as he gave up on stopping him.

He strolled over to the group of clergymen and winced when their immediate reaction to him was to make space, as if he made his way over by an accident and they didn’t wish to stand in the way.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted politely.

He wasn’t overly fond of religion or their ways for obvious reasons. Still, he could understand why Nile would want to support an orphanage and he treated everyone with respect, unless they gave him a reason not to. 

Without missing a beat, Joseph turned to the man who’d charmed him like a mermaid would a sailor. He was staring back at him with those wide, soulful eyes and Joseph couldn’t look away.

“My name’s Joseph Jones.”

Like on command, the other clergymen left and gave them their privacy and Joseph felt it was fitting to compare them to a startled flock of pigeons, making way for walkers on the sidewalk. He scolded himself internally. This man before him was no such thing. This man was everything he’d ever wanted to see or look at again. And he was staring at him with those big, scared eyes, as if he’d been caught in the most embarrassing moment of his life. He finally did react when Joseph held out his hand to shake.

“I’m brother Nicolo. Nice to meet you, sir Jones.”

“Nice to meet you.” Joe wondered whether Nicolo knew who he was, if his reputation reached the beautiful man before he could. Suddenly, he felt regretful of his cold way if they meant this man would dislike him right away. “I have a foolish question to ask but I find myself unable to ask it.”

Now brother Nicolo’s lips quirked up with a shy smile. He gave him a tentative nod to dare him to go on.

“I must paint you.”

“What?”

“Immediately. Today it would be best.”

“My apologies, sir. I don’t understand.”

“Is it too daring? I apologize. I couldn’t help myself.”

Nicolo let out a small bark of a laugh and Joseph couldn’t help but grin. As if they broke some serious role, both of them quickly returned to their polite selves, for Nicolo it meant wiping the smile off his face and Joseph felt like he could weep at the sight.

“I’m sorry, sir. But I’m a priest.”

“And priests can’t have portraits?”

“No, sir. Usually. Abbots usually have one made, so it hangs on the wall with all the others.”

“I believe your likeness belongs on the most significant walls in the most royal frame. Painted in gold would be best.”

Now the brother looked held back, almost choking on the nothing in his throat. He looked at Joseph as if he was a madman. Perhaps he was, he thought to himself. He never let shyness get in his way before, he wasn’t about to do that now.

“Is it against your morals, to have a portrait?” he asked respectfully.

“It would be outrageous for me to own such a thing. The only thing I own is this gown. I have no money and I’m not interested in any gifts. I’m a man of God, sir Jones.”

“Who says you would own it?” he improvised and caught brother Nicolo off guard, “It is for me. Pose for me. And the painting will hang on my wall, the most prominent one in my gallery, in full view of everyone.”

“Sir! You can’t be serious!”

“Then not in the gallery. In my own residence. Away from judging and praying eyes, even away from God himself. Let me paint you. I’ve never seen a face like yours.” Something inside of him loved how scandalous the look on brother Nicolo’s face was. “I will become a sponsor of your orphanage. Go ask the rest of your brothers if that’s okay, will you? Just come to me. Come into my studio.” He gave him the address and then left, leaving the priest standing in the middle of the garden, pale and flushed at the same time.

Joe had to wait a day, and it was a relentless pain to do so, spent staring at the empty canvas in front of him and then replacing it with another, even larger and more fit the beauty of the man he wanted to paint, then he’d searched his paints for the most quality ones and sent his assistant to buy him more just so he had extra in stock in case he needed them, before finally, he received a letter that spoke of brother Nicolo’s acceptance. It wasn’t giddiness that overtook him, it was pure excitement that somehow manifested in him simply sitting down on the soft-cushioned sofa in his studio and sprawling all over it, breathing in shallow breaths that barely sustained his lungs.

He let himself be taken by the pillows and wished to hide into one of them, just so he could sit next to Nicolo when he posed on the sofa, and breathe in the scent of him and feel the weight of his body. Wait, not the sofa, the regalness of him, the beauty of him would be wasted on this stupid pink piece of furniture. He would need to sit in the big chair with a leather seat, the one that had golden rods woven into the legs and armrests and beautiful motives carved into them. And Joseph would place it in front of the long, heavy, black drapes that hung onto the south wall of his studio, and Nicolo would sit in it and the black would bring out the blue in his eyes and the darkness of his hair and Joe would tear down the other drapes over his windows so he couldn’t lose a single ray of light that could shine upon that beautiful face. In his mind, it all started to come together and he started to order his studio and clean, for no reason that he could find logical enough, and before dinner, his studio’s corner was turned into the perfect backdrop of his future masterwork. 

Red, he thought suddenly. He needed red. He needed Nicolo to wear red, a silk shirt with wide sleeves and a frill that gathered at his chest, untied down to his ribs, contrasting with his pale skin. Joseph felt his breath hitch and his pants tighten at the thought. In a brief moment of clarity, he remembered the priest telling him of not owning anything but the gown and suddenly his dream felt threatened. 

He called over his maid and asked her to search his closet through and through until she found every red shirt she could get her hands on. He was too deep into his trans to go look for himself, opting to stay in the studio instead and keep moving the throne he chose for Nicolo an inch there and an inch here until he got its position perfectly right. By that time, the maid came back with her arms full of red fabric; silky and shiny and rough and matte, standing so tall Joseph could barely see her behind the pile. He picked up the shirts one by one, and when he deemed them unsatisfactory, he threw them all over the room. Finally, he held in his hands the piece of silk that he could imagine on Nicolo. The wide, flowy sleeves were gathered at the cuffs and the chest was lined with a frill, the fabric scratched the pads of his fingers just right and with all of his joy, Joseph hugged the shirt close and then kissed the maid so she dropped the rest of his shirts on the floor in a heap.

“This is the one!” he called happily, stepping on his clothes as he laid it carefully on the chair. “Could you bring trousers as well? Black. And suspenders. Thank you, Jessie.”

She looked at him for a moment that felt too long and after he arched an eyebrow at her she snapped out of it, gathered the clothes she’d dropped and he’d thrown about and quickly left.

First session

The next morning, Joseph anxiously awaited the arrival of his most beautiful model. He’d painted absolutely gorgeous people before; most of the aristocracy in the city wished to be immortalized by his brushes and some were more than nice to look at, but Nicolo was someone entirely else; he was out of this world and Joseph hoped to capture a glimpse of his beauty so he could feel closer to whatever magical land he must had came from.

In those moments when his mind wasn’t completely clouded by his image, Joseph wondered whether it was because he was a priest. Whether he fetishized the holiness, the untouchables ness of him, just a little bit. Was he chaste and innocent? Such a beautiful man, such a waste. But that was it, wasn’t it? he’d asked himself all night. If he was this beautiful soul who never sinned, who truly wished to own nothing and only help people’s souls get in Heaven, it somehow made his aura brighter and the halo around his head more believable.

He arrived at ten o’clock, not one minute earlier and not one minute later. The maid brought him into the studio and Joseph heard him decline and thank for the kind offer of tea before the maid had left. Standing there on a color stained hardwood floor, surrounded by canvases stored around the room seemingly sporadically, cans of dry, chipping pain, a number of brushes thrown around the room and random, senseless pieces of fabric and blankets and pillows piled in the corner, brother Nicolo looked like the room was cornering him, stressing him from all sides until he pulled his shoulders up and ducked his head down so he’d fit in the small cubicle the room had suddenly become. The tenseness in him disappeared when he saw Joseph, but he guessed it was less because of his presence and more because of his appearance. 

Painting was never a job or a hobby for Joseph; painting was a passion, a session of seizures that took hold of his hands without warning and he could do nothing but put brushes in them and provide colours and a canvas and then he’d black out and he’d rise only when the painting was done; when all of his heart and soul had bled through his callouses down the handle of the brush and into the brisks, colouring the skies in his sceneries and the lips on his portraits. Sometimes he’d paint naked, so he could feel the foul smell of paints and absorb it with every pore of his skin, and he’d scare off the maids when they’d go and check on him during the night. Other times, he painted all dressed up; with suspenders and a vest and a coat jacket and a tophat rammed down on his head, and he’d joyfully watch his white cuffs turn into an ugly shade of all the colors, and he’d wipe his hand on his trousers sooner or later and ruin those too. The color stained tophat; that had pink, yellow and green fingerprints all around the brim, was his favourite and had its permanent place on top of the easel he used to hold his canvases. Maids hated when he dressed up, too. But today, all he wore were loose, linen pants that ended just above his ankles and a crumpled white shirt of the same material, untied so his breasts breathed free of any restraint. He was barefoot, too, unafraid of the splinters that surely roamed in the floorboards. Most of all, his hair was not slicked back with oil and it seemed to be what caught brother Nicolo most off guard; the wild curls of black that crowned his head.

“Brother Nicolo,” he greeted him and already, a wild and happy smile rose across his face, all teeth and dimples. He bit his lip and eyed his model, dressed in all black and covered head to toe, looking like a prude among the colors that surrounded him. Still, Joseph felt nothing but attraction towards the man. He could eat him up with his eyes, his hands, his mouth. Brush would have to do. “Was your journey here okay?”

“Yes,” answered brother Nicolo, red in his face since the first moment he’d stepped in the room. He couldn’t look more uncomfortable and that made Joseph unhappy.

“I would like to start right away. Is that okay?”

“I understand. Yes. But, sir. I’ve never done anything like this.”

Joseph looked at him with mercy and for a moment, imagined he was saying those words some other time, in a different setting, with a candle lighting up those gorgeous features of his. He grinned again. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I got everything we need, all I need from you is you.”

Now was the first time that brother Nicolo smiled, the flush in his cheeks shy and gentle instead of scared. Joe walked towards the wall covered in heavy, black drapes with a beautiful chair sat in the middle of it and a canvas positioned on the opposite side and Nicolo followed.

“You can strip behind the screen over there,” said Joe as he started mixing his paints, acting his best to not seem eager to watch the clergy man undress. 

Instead, Nicolo choked and asked: “Pardon?”

It tugged a chuckle out of the painter and even he wasn’t sure whether he did that on purpose. “The clothes on the chair. Please. Put them on. Your gown would disappear amidst the drapes.”

His face was red like a tomato when he laid his eyes upon the chair and noticed the set of clothes. Embarrassed, brother Nicolo took the clothes and disappeared behind the screen. While he mixed the colors and prepared his brushes, he acted as if it didn’t arouse him; the sound of fabric shuffling against fabric as Nicolo took off the gown and dressed to Joe’s liking, the sound of the suspenders snapping into place, the whirl of a lace running through its hoops in the shirt. Feeling like he would burst otherwise, Joseph closed his eyes and his hand pressed tight to his groin, sinking into the pressure and telling himself that that was it, that was all he was gonna get and he should focus now. It helped momentarily, at least until Nicolo merged from behind the screen.

The sight of him was more than intoxicating. The way the fabric hugged his lean body made Joseph wish he’d decided to paint naked today. Was it too late to go back? Ultimately, he decided against it as it seemed it would had only chased his dear model away. He looked weirded out enough as it was, pulling at the sleeves and taking steps a bit too long with the tight pants holding his legs.

“You look ravishing. Get in the chair.”

Like a good soldier, Nicolo obeyed the order and went and sat down, his knees knocked together and he straightened his back, held his head up and levelled like they surely taught him in the monastery. This wouldn’t do, thought Joe as he watched him from behind the blank canvas. 

Nicolo watched him with shyful but curious eyes, looking like an obedient student eager to learn, and Joseph knew how to teach this particular subject. He could tell he was uncomfortable, but pleasantly surprised that he indulged in the change of wardrobe without protest. Still, stiff as a board, his beauty would be hidden behind the firm frame of his shoulders, under the tight line of his set jaw, and Joseph set out to fix that.

Grabbing his own chair from behind the easel, he sat down in front of Nicolo until their knees touched, mimicking his tense posture, and focused on his eyes and the pupils shrinking with shock at the sudden touch. Joseph grinned.

“Are you afraid?”

“What should I be afraid of?” asked Nicolo.

“I don’t know what flew about your ears. Maybe I yell at my models? Maybe I’m moody and cruel. Maybe I paint them and then kill them to trap their soul into the painting.”

Nicolo frowned upon him taking souls so lightly and the scowl made his face even prettier somehow. Joe backpaddled and wiped the smirk off his face before he continued. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I know I don’t have the best reputation among the society. And I know you’re here just because the monastery needs the donation.” With those words, he took out a cheque that had been somehow hidden inside of his shirt, and handed it to Nicolo, replacing the guilt on his beautiful features with shock. It was for more than the monastery could hope for and Nicolo’s hand twitched as he looked away from the number. Joseph laughed again. “It’s just money, Nicolo. Take it. It’s yours whether you want to sit in that chair or not. I’m not here to paint your misery.”

He catched the glimpse Nicolo shot towards the exit so he stood up and got back behind his easel, leaning against a cupboard, giving him the space he needed to leave. Those beautiful eyes of his looked even paler when he wore striking colors, and especially now that they were deciding an inner battle, the muscles in his pupils contracting. Joseph was patient and waited.

“What do you want to paint, then?” asked Nicolo and the way his face flushed all over made Joseph’s fingers twitch for his paints. 

He was waiting for that question, no doubt, hoped with every fiber of his being that Nicolo wouldn’t leave, even if he wouldn’t stop him if he decided to, and now he leaned against the back of his own chair, melting against the rest with his head laid on his forearms, watching him with blatant admiration. 

“You. Just you, Nicolo. When I first saw you - my heart stopped and all my paintings were suddenly worthless when they weren’t of you. You possess unearthly beauty. Let me paint you, please. And I swear to you I’ll do everything in my strength to do justice to you.”

“Sir Jones, what are you saying?” he asked bashfully, staring at him with horror.

“What’s in my heart, Nicolo. I beg of you to let me capture your grace and charm. I will want nothing else from you, I will leave you in peace and the painting won’t ever see the light of day - even if your beauty deserves to be seen by all. I will do everything you request. Just let me paint you. I feel like it has been my life’s purpose.”

Nicolo lowered his sight and for a moment, Joseph thought he’d seen a glimpse of disappointment in his features. The seconds he took to speak felt excruciating.

“I will let you paint.” He granted him a lopsided smile and Joseph’s legs were suddenly jelly so he pushed the chair over to sit back down, facing brother Nicolo. “How do you- What should I do?”

That was all Joseph wanted to hear, his olive skin heating up with blush all the way to his ears. He calmed himself before he sank back in the chair, his legs sprawled and his wrists sitting atop his legs, grazing his inner thighs. He relaxed and locked Nicolo in a stare that seemed to be a battle. But those pale eyes weren’t about to lose, it seemed. The priest didn’t dodge or shy away as he mirrored his posture, sinking back in the chair and easing up. 

“Look to the side please. And pull your chin up,” said Joseph and leaned over to help him do so with his bent finger barely grazing the man’s skin. It felt heavenly and Joseph knew the touch would sting him for the rest of the day. He made Nicolo look slightly up, slightly to the side, holding his chin high while he was otherwise collapsed in his seat.

When he was happy with his work, he searched for those pale, blue eyes again and once they met, Joseph smiled an honest, gentle smile; pure and all sun. Nicolo returned it with the slightest twitch of his lips, trying not to mess up the pose he was molded into. He hadn’t stopped blushing, nor did he stop giving Joseph wary eyes, but he was the perfect model; stoic and royal looking without even trying and Joseph thought he deserved to be carved from stone or marble and laid out in the middle of his gallery.

The shirt laid undisturbed on top of his tight body, the romantic sleeves hanging down from his shoulders in a wave of fabric that bunched up on top of his thighs that looked firm and amazing in the fitted pants. He couldn’t ask for a better light; the sun bronzed Nicolo’s cheek where it rose with a bone and casted shadows on his nose, under his brow and the beautiful curve of his lower lip. Joseph was almost sure he fell in love.

He settled behind his easel and started to paint, taken hostage by his own hands that were now moving on their own; grappling charcoal and attacking the canvas with such certainty it felt almost brutal. Never before had he been this sure what to draw, never before had he been this motivated by someone’s beauty. In sparse moments of his wits coming back to him, Joseph considered asking Nicolo to untie his shirt and bare his chest, but they soon left him; he’d have enough time to ask for it later.

Joseph drew and then painted and Nicolo sat. They skipped lunch, Joseph’s brushes chasing the last of noon’s shine into the early afternoon. Then, when the sun rolled over an invisible border in the sky, the shadows were all wrong and Joseph snapped out of his trans like he’d had a bucket of water thrown on him. Immediately, he looked towards Nicolo, his amazing model, who kept his posture without a fail all day. 

“Nicolo. Have you eaten? What time is it?”

“Jessie brought in sandwiches and tea,” he muttered without answering any of his questions, easing out of his posture to curl back into his shy form.

Confused and hazed, Joseph nodded frantically and looked around to see the untouched lunch sitting on the table. He went over and grabbed a sandwich that he almost immediately devoured, handing the second one to Nicky without giving him a chance to refuse. Then he poured them tea and brought the cup with its saucer as well, handing it to Nicky who was rolling his first bite over on his tongue.

“Jesus. Time goes by fast. My apologies. When I start to paint, I sometimes zone out.”

Nicolo ignored the profanity and munched on his food, setting the cup of tea on top of his legs. “I noticed, sir.”

“Stop it, please. I’m Joe for friends. Can you call me Joe?”

“Are we friends?” Nicolo asked and the honesty and innocence in his voice were jarring.

“I’d like to think we are. More than that, you’re my muse.” 

Drawing a gentle smile out of Nicolo seemed like an impossible task and Joseph mentally congratulated himself every time he managed it, including this moment.

Mustering up courage to ask, Nicolo said: “How does the painting look?” 

And like a spell, the hazed, loveful fire was back in Joe’s eyes as he spoke without ever leaving Nicolo’s eyes unattended by his own. “Like the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, just without much detail. Or legs.” Nicolo chuckled with his lips pressed tightly together, looking away. Joseph leaned back and drank his tea and the sight of Nicolo like this. And he seemed happy.

On their second session,

Nicolo arrived on time again. This time though, he was prepared for what he would encounter in the studio and walked in without looking like a lost doe. In spite of it looking even more messy and crowded than last time. Nicolo wondered how Joseph managed that, it didn’t look possible. Instead of anxiously looking around, his eyes immediately searched for the painter, knowing he had to be somewhere in the labyrinth of canvases and stools.

“Sir Jones? Joe?” 

“I’m right here.”

Nicolo turned after the voice and found Joe coming in through the hallway, holding a soft pillow.

“I apologize. Jessie said you were in the studio. I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey. It’s all right. No need to apologize. I just had to run and get something really quick.” Triumphally, he walked over to the chair Nicolo was to sit on and placed the pillow against the backrest, patting it with his palm. “There you go. So your back won’t hurt that much.”

The smile Nicolo gave him was the softest yet but the creases it created around his eyes could send Joe tumbling in a heartbeat.

Nicolo went to change and again, Joseph listened, with his eyes closed and mind running wild and free. The tightness was no longer just in his garments, it now crawled up his chest and held his ribs hostage. He hated Nicolo dressing up at the end of the day to change back into his gown, the blocky piece of clothing did nothing but hide his beautiful body, but he loved the excuse to have him change right there, in the studio.

Shrugging off his nasty thoughts, Joe gave Nicolo a smile once he came out from behind the screen, looking just as breathless as last time, and pointed him towards the chair. Once he settled and took on the pose, Joe began to paint. Again, like if the devil himself took hold of him, Joseph’s eyes glazed over and his ears went stuffed as he sank into the canvas, into the depth of the paints; their hues and consistency and small lumps of dried bits, and he applied them to Nicolo’s features with care and gentleness.

The sun had crawled up high and began to fall again when the shadows turned and Joe snapped out of his trans. This time, though, he would be smarter, he reminded himself. With a sneaky glance, he checked that the lunch was prepared on the table and then turned back towards the canvas. He drew the next few strokes in the air, hovering a few inches above the newest layer of paint, prolonging the session.

“How long have you been at the monastery?” he asked without taking his eyes off the painting.

The beautiful man looked startled at first, but didn’t let his shock bleed into his pose. “Ever since I remembered.”

“Have you ever thought that there was something more?”

“More than God?” he countered and sounded almost mocking. Joe liked the fire within him. “No. It’s the ultimate message to help people be one with God.”

“I don’t doubt that. But, are you telling me you never thought about dropping the black? Picking up red, maybe?”

The grin he gave to his canvas was mirrored by Nicolo and Joe sneaked a peek to see his beautiful cheeks stretch with a smile. 

After a fat moment of silence, Nicolo answered: “I did. But I’m confident in my faith.”

“What a pity. Red suits you.”

Nicolo tried to hide a chuckle again and this time caught Joe sneaking a peek at him past the canvas. He quickly dodged, but Nicolo kept looking. 

Somehow, it was easy to follow the rhythm of Joseph’s arms that peeked out from behind the easel, the fabric of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and bunching there, crinkling and shifting with his brush strokes. The crown of his head, covered in thick black curls that lured Nicolo’s eyes to him whenever he ran his eyes around the room. It felt wrong to feel the heat within him and so he pushed it away, as far as he could until he couldn’t even remember what the dirty thought was. 

Joe ended the session with another sandwich in between his teeth. Then he fed Nicolo and they had tea, Nicolo changed back into his gown, Joe groaned into his fist at how hard he was, and then Jessie accompanied Nicolo outside and he left.

It was their third session

when Nicolo couldn’t keep his pose. It wasn’t an aching knot in his muscles or a spasm, no pins and needles, it was the desire to keep looking towards the easel, or more precisely, at the person standing behind it. Here and there, their eyes would meet but by now Nicolo knew that Joseph wasn’t really looking; he was conducting his brushes and he was studying the light reflecting off his skin, but he wasn’t looking. He didn’t notice him staring back at him, studying him just the same.

The painter was nothing short of a handsome man himself. If it wasn’t for the obvious beauty in his face, it was for his unapologetic attitude that painted him honest and true - to himself and everyone around. Nicolo knew he should be feeling appalled by his carefree attitude, by his profanities and how lightly he took to God, but he never did. All he felt was astonishment that at times grew into adoration. He wasn’t sure why he felt that way, why he looked forward to waking up in the morning and leaving the cold walls of the monastery so he could sit in this studio, surrounded by colour and life and Joe’s unconscious hums while he painted, the bright smiles he seemed to have unlimited and was always happy to give.

Nicolo grew up in the monastery, it was true. The rest of his truths though, were downplayed at the very least. He thought about leaving the order all the time. He thought about leaving more times than he convinced himself to stay, sick of the coldness of its shadow, the strict hand that more often than not, led its followers into obscurity, prejudice and ignorance. The people of God, Nicolo always thought he looked up to, had flaws he didn’t want to see himself repeating. But he had nothing and knew nothing of the world outside the monastery. And so he stayed and prayed and hoped his faith would be enough to bring him down the correct path.

“Why did you ask me about my faith?” he asked in the middle of the session, half hoping that it would fall on deaf ears and Joe would just ignore him, like he did to most the sounds that happened while he painted.

Instead, Joe answered immediately, Nicolo’s deep voice taking him out of his zone without losing any focus on his work. “Because I was interested.”

“Why were you?”

Joe laughed. “I guess I was hoping, as well.”

“Hoping for what?” he asked again, unwilling to let it go. 

“Hoping that you’d stray off your holy path one day,” said Joe and looked up from the canvas, watching the soft lines on Nicolo's face through his eyelashes, “And that I’d be there to offer my humble guidance down a new one.”

Nicolo’s whole face turned flushed but he kept his eyes glued to a spot somewhere in the distance., trying to downplay the effect of Joseph’s words. On the spur of the moment, he decided that to mock him would be a good idea. “Of an artist?”

He could see the easel shake as Joe belly laughed and nudged it by accident and then frantically grabbed the sides of it to still it in fear of damaging the painting. “Well, if you ever decide to take me up on the offer, my studio’s door is always opened.” And he leaned away from the canvas, patiently waiting for Nicolo’s eyes to dart towards him, and then winked, causing the priest to snap his head away again.

It was during their usual, late lunch that Joe decided it was his turn to ask. He let loose a flurry of questions, whatever flew about his mind, confident that Nicolo would take them. Who were your parents? Have you always wanted to be a priest? What do you do in the monastery? Do you work at the orphanage? Have you ever had a flirt? Have you ever been dancing? 

Nicolo answered in simple, short sentences but curious and eager to answer more. With every new question he felt like he found out more about Joe, as well. About his father, who was a banker, about his mother, who was a singer from a foreign country. He let loose his low thoughts of the aristocrats, even slipped and mentioned the men he’d been with. All with a smile plastered on his face and warmth flaming from behind his eyes. Nicolo felt content like never before. Maybe for the first time in his life, someone confided in him without asking for absolution. 

On the fourth session,

Nicolo didn’t go sit in the chair right away and instead hung around the easel that held the painting. It was almost finished. The background was more than detailed, every crease in the drapes was different and absorbed the light even more beautifully than in reality, enchanting the space around the figure that sat in the middle. It was him, he kept repeating to himself, convincing himself; it was him in the painting. It looked exactly like him, too, he recognized the lines in his hands and the slouch of his shoulders. He felt like he could recognize the individual strands of hair that covered the figure’s face. And yet, he couldn’t believe he was looking at himself. The painting depicted someone so beautiful and radiant; someone who would had surely left the cold walls of the monastery and explored the world, someone who was confident in his ways and beliefs. 

All that was left was the detail on his face, painted only with rough strokes of color and shadows. He could recognize the hollows of his own eyes, the angle of his nose and the mole on his face, and somehow it all looked undeniably beautiful on the canvas. Absentmindedly, Nicolo touched his face as he his other hand hovered above the painting, tracing his own lines like he was learning them for the first time.

“What do you think?” 

He turned around to see Joe standing behind him. Something about the painter spoke of a different man entirely, no confidence wove through his voice and his warm eyes twitched with uncertainty. Nicolo realized it was fear of acceptance.

“I didn’t take you for someone who worries themselves with other people’s opinions.”

“I worry myself with your opinion. I always will. It’s a painting of you. It cannot be complete unless you’re happy with it.”

“I hate it,” he said without a second thought. It was the immediate shock that took over Joseph’s face that urged Nicolo to keep talking. “I never want you to finish it.”

“But why?” he asked. Heartbroken was a word too faint for the expression that spread through Joe’s face. He leaned onto the cupboard and curled into himself, searching Nicolo’s face for an answer. “Tell me. Nicolo, I will repaint it. I will fix everything. Just tell me.”

For a brief, fleeting moment, he wished he’d learned how to lie so he could keep it up but he knew that the sight of sad Joseph would break even the most experienced liar. He started to panic, thinking he’d done irreversible damage, and went up to Joe, taking his face in his hands.

“Joe, listen to me.” He forced the painter’s glassy, teary eyes to look into his own. “I lied. I lied. I have never seen a painting more beautiful. You’ve created something so gorgeous I cannot convince myself that it’s me. I just wish you never had to finish it. I wish I could keep coming to your studio. I wish we kept talking. But it’s almost done. You’ll finish it today and I’ll never see you again.”

The words just rolled down his tongue and Nicolo didn’t know how to stop them. He would be trembling had he not been holding Joe’s face, rubbing unconscious circles into his cheeks, holding his gaze so gently, so carefully. Finally, Joe snapped out of the depths he dropped into, resurfacing in between Nicolo’s warm, trembling palms holding him. 

Joe reached up and took hold of his hands, keeping them there. He didn’t look away, studying the unshed tears bunching up in Nicolo’s eyes.

“Oh, my dear Nicolo.” His hand reached up to Nicolo’s cheek, gathering the tear on the side of his finger. Nicolo sobbed, looking away. “You lied? Because of me?”

“What?”

“You went off the path, Nicolo.” His face tried to hide the smile tugging on his lips when he saw the honest confusion that engulfed Nicolo’s features. When he realized, his cheeks filled with heat and his breath started to calm. It was about time, he told himself.

“Guide me,” he whispered. His hands slid down the column of Joseph’s neck. With hunger he didn’t know before, he watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, then the supple skin of his lips and then the laugh lines around his eyes before daring to face him again. Joe’s eyes were already fire. His hands slid up Nicolo’s chest until they hooked onto his neck, massaging the pulse point while he leaned closer. The heat of his breath could hold Nicolo warm during all winter months, he knew. His heart started beating hammers within his chest as Joe leaned in too close, his lips just barely brushing against Nicolo’s. It was the sweetest tease and he was far too gone to appreciate it. Crushing his lips against his, Nicolo chased after the feeling of his warmth and his spirit and Joe gave it eagerly, parting his soft lips with his tongue, kissing and biting until their lips were swollen.

“Nicolo, my love,” breathed Joe, stroking Nicolo’s hair out of his way and watching his pupils blown wide with desire. It was like looking into a mirror, seeing his own greed for him reflected. “Let me have you. In the most sinful way.”

“Have me. Please.”

The growl Joe let out as he tore the gown from Nicolo was borderline animalistic. He ripped a part of it trying to let him free too fast, but he considered the gown undeserving of staying whole. It kept this beautiful man locked away for too long. Eager, grasping hands tugged on his own clothes, urging them off and Joe laughed between peppering Nicolo with kisses, murmuring sweet nothings of encouragement into the skin on his shoulder, the spot behind his ear and the edge of his jaw. Those silent, shy sounds he let out sent shivers straight down Joe’s spine, coiling at the depth of his gut. Joe felt engulfed in flames, burning up with desire, with  _ need _ . Every beautiful sound he caused in Nicolo and every shy request he made and Joe obeyed, he cherished. It felt out of this world to be loved by this man. 

“Will you finish it?” he asked when lying against Joe’s chest. Both of them were looking up at the ceiling, watching the scenery Joe had painted up there, depicting a colorful garden filled with thousands of flowers. Nicolo was chewing on his sandwich and so was Joe, a dumb smile hogging his cheeks, a color-stained tophat pushed into his face. They were both naked under the blanket, lying on the pink sofa.

“I could. I finally know what it’s been missing. I know what the face will look like.”

Nicolo turned to look at him. “What will it look like?”

“Like you when I sucked you dry. The moment of ultimate pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first a little raunchy fic and I feel really nervous, but ultimately right for writing it this way. I hope you enjoyed it and would love to hear your thoughts!


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